


Apart (Now You Know Me)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [79]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Pegging, Reunion Sex, sam being tagged as fareehas father bothers me so much when im tagging this relationship LASJDFALSDF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Once, Sam explained to her that Deaf people feel much more precisely than hearing people do, that much of the section of their brain that might otherwise be processing sound is instead interpreting touch.  Sometimes, she thinks about that—wonders what it would be like, to feel things as he does, so intensely and acutely.Or,While on leave during the Omnic Crisis, Ana takes some time to get reacquainted with her husband.
Relationships: Ana Amari/Fareeha "Pharah" Amari's Father
Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [79]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/508281
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	Apart (Now You Know Me)

**Author's Note:**

> i have been writing this in tiny bits and pieces since last april. but u know... its done now! on my gfs birthday. bc what says two lesbians enjoying some sexy things together like... m/f smut? WELL.
> 
> anyway note ahead of time that i write sam as Deaf and bc hes canadian he uses ASL. naturally ana knows some bc when ur married to a Deaf person... u would do well to learn

Coming home is not what Ana envisioned it would be. It is, perhaps, what she _ought_ to have imagined it would be like, given what Jack told her about his return home to his own (now former) partner, Vincent, the distance he described, the ways in which they seemed to be leading two different lives, and all the ways in which that manifested, things he could never have anticipated from the letters and calls home. But Ana thought _Not Sam, surely_ , _not my marriage_. After all, Ana has never met Vincent, and cannot picture, after Jack’s description of their last argument, that he and Sam have much in common at all.

In some ways, she is right. Sam does not tell her how hard it has been for _him_ , her being away, does not say that he cannot stand not knowing whether or not she is safe, does not tell her that someone else would be as well suited as she, that he needs her there. Never would Sam try to limit her so—perhaps because he knows, already, it would not work.

Yet things are different, nonetheless. Nothing needs to be said for that to be so, no accusations need to be made. Ana can see it, in the way Sam easily soothes Fareeha after she trips and falls, and the way it is him she turns to for a story before she sleeps, can see it in the way they seem to have routines and jokes about which she has never heard, the way they have developed an understanding of each other she fears she lacks. 

She loves them both dearly, of course, and she wants them to be happy, and to be able to be happy without her, lest something happen in the field, but it does make her sad, still, to realize they have a whole little life without her, and while she is far from unwanted, she does feel _unneeded_ , which is equally as hard.

If she could be home more, she would be—but without soldiers like her, without the newly formed Overwatch Strike Team, she would not have a home to which she might return. So she has to be away, and they understand, they do. 

Or, Sam understands. Fareeha is a little young, yet, at three years old, to truly know what it is her mother does for them, but she knows that Ummi loves her, and would not go away if she had a choice, and she knows that what it is that Ana does is very important, even if she does not know _why._ This, Sam has impressed upon her, and Ana is grateful, because it saves her the worry of having to explain such things to her daughter, the burden of Fareeha’s tears at the knowledge that she will be leaving again soon, the fear that Fareeha might resent her for leaving, or feel abandoned.

(It says much, too, about what Sam feels about Ana’s work, about her decision to return to the field, even knowing that she is leaving him to be a single parent, possibly permanently. He trusts her, and he supports her in every way he can, and she thinks she should not have worried, so, even if it was hard to not worry, after everything.)

Returning home for a brief time—mandatory, after she was told to undergo surgery to enhance her distance vision by replacing one of her eyes with a cybernetic one—is not easy for Ana, not by any stretch of the imagination, is not the happy reunion that she envisioned, wherein she would fall back into her life like nothing ever happened, but it is not _terrible_ , either, because yes, she feels out of place, and yes, she could be doing something, right now, rather than be stuck here, could be saving lives, but a part of that irritability is the pain medication, she is sure, and Fareeha and Sam do love her, dearly, so she can weather this for them. 

Well, she tells herself it is just irritability after surgery. And the surgery is a convenient excuse, really, for her to feign a need to sleep, when it is time to go to bed for the first night, the second, the third, because she doeshave a headache, even if that is not why she is not interested in having sex.

Rather, she is interested, very much so, has thought about _reuniting_ with Sam, as it were, any number of times whilst away, sometimes more than once a night. Now that she is here, though, the anxieties creep in. 

What if Sam is not attracted to her anymore? He is a gentle person, and while he will stand up for all that he believes, and strongly, he does so only at risk to his own life, would not hurt others to make his point known. After all that she has seen, after all that he is done, will he still find her beautiful, knowing that she has killed people— _many people—_ not only omnics, but humans, too, when it has been necessary, and that she does not regret those deaths? 

And even if he can get past that, what will he think of the ways in which her body has changed, as a result of the fighting? Even if he does not mind the new scars, there are plenty of other unappealing things about her, now, plenty of things she worries are counter to his preferences. She knows he loves her for who she is, not what she looks like, but that does not mean that he will be attracted to her, and she remembers that after she gave birth, he encouraged her not to lose weight too quickly, admitted that he liked the way she looked then, and now she is thinner than ever, and more muscular, too, and it worries her. And there is her body hair! She used to wax, started long before they ever met, but she does not have time on the front, nor the inclination, and truthfully, she does not want to get in the habit again now, knowing that she is only going to end up dealing with the itching of her hair growing back in when she returns to active duty. But Sam is nearly hairless, naturally, and she wonders what he would think, if he saw just how much hair she can actually grow, wonders if the unfamiliarity would make it seem disgusting.

Likely not—she knows Sam, knows that he is not concerned by such petty things, knows that beyond their initial spark of attraction, her appearance has never been the most important part of her, to him. It is still hard to shake the insecurity, though.

(And really, it has nothing to do with Sam, has everything to do with her elder sister Laila telling her that she needed to shave, and to learn to cook, and to stop acting so much like a _man_ if she wanted to ever find a husband, and to do with her mother, who upon news of her engagement said that of _course_ Ana would marry a deaf man, because if he wanted to stop listening to her he could simply look away. But just because it is not her husband’s fault, does not mean that she does not feel these insecurities.)

Nor is that the last of it: there is also her eye. She is far enough into recovery that she is cleared to have the eye visible, now, and she _knows_ it is not quite the same as a human eye, knows that it lights when she scopes. How it will respond to arousal, she has no idea, but she would not blame Sam if he flinched, upon looking up and seeing something positively _inhuman_ gazing down at him. 

Despite all this when, one evening after she has had a while to adjust to being home, Fareeha goes down to sleep, Sam seems _very_ interested in Ana, still, kisses her in a way that ensures that she has no doubts as to his intentions.

For a moment, Ana thinks about pleading a headache again, about putting this off for one more night, because she is nervous about how he will react; seeing her clothed like this is not the same as seeing her nude, and she has avoided undressing in front of him thus far, and maybe her eye will flash strangely when her pupils dilate and maybe—

—There are many maybes, none of them good, but Overwatch chose her for her ability to be decisive, and leaving this as a problem for tomorrow is not doing that. Better to pull the trigger, to get this over with, to know if he approves or not and to be done with it.

So she does—or starts to, starts to pull her shirt off, when suddenly Sam stops her.

A different sort of heat floods her cheeks, then, shame or embarrassment or maybe anger, at him and at herself, for misreading this, for daring to hope.

But when he signs to her, he does not say no, says instead “Not _here_ ,” signs the _here_ first to emphasize that his objection is only the place, and Ana thinks, _Oh, right,_ because this is not like before—their daughter can walk, now, could get out of her bed at any moment and see them. Gone are the days where sex against the wall in their hallway is an option, and she does not want to have to explain a trail of clothes later, either.

“Sorry,” she signs back, moving her fist in a tight circle over her chest, “Caught up in the moment.”

“It’s fine,” says he, and then, his head cocked slightly to the side, a question and not an order, “Bedroom?”

She nods her assent, and he smiles at that, broadly, in a way that could not be properly called sexy _,_ but rather is eager, and enthusiastic, and puts Ana at ease.

(Handsome as her husband is, he has never been the seductive sort, and for once, Ana is grateful for that, because it makes this easier. Next to him, she neither looks nor feels too out of place, at the moment. If he had been too romantic about this, or too overtly seductive, Ana does not know how she would have reacted, thinks she would have demurred, again, felt more inadequate. But this? Simply showing her that he wants her? That she does not shy away from.)

They walk quickly down the hallway, him just ahead of her, and into their bedroom, wherein she pushes him up against the door and kisses him fiercely.

She has missed this. Until he kissed her, she did not realize how much, but all it took was a few short seconds for her to realize just how _long_ it has been, and how much she wants this, despite her worries. A year and a half is a very long time to have been away, and once he kisses her, and she knows that he wants her, that although things have changed, somewhat, they have not changed that much—well, she is not about to let anything stop them, now.

(Maybe Jack’s experience affected her more than she thought. She has spent the past three and half days worrying about whether or not she would still connect with Sam, still be attractive to him, and not spent nearly enough time paying attention to just how much they still want one another.)

So she shoves him against the door, kisses him deeply, and when they pause for breath, she makes sure that their door is _locked._ The last thing either of them wants—or needs—is Fareeha barging in because she heard thunder, just as she did the night before, even if it was a welcome distraction from Ana’s own reaction to the thunder.

(It was hard to stroke her daughter’s hair and tell her nothing was wrong, when Ana’s own thoughts were on the fact that it sounded not unlike the distant use of an anti-tank missile, but she does not think Sam noticed, and it is _fine,_ really, even if she used to love storms.)

But Sam unlocks the door as soon as she removes her hand, tells her “No,” with his other hand.

“Why not?” she demands with her right hand, left already moving to lock the door again.

“What if Fareeha needs us?” He uses their sign name for their daughter when he says it, and Ana wonders which Fareeha thinks of herself as, the spoken name or the sign. 

“I can hear,” Ana says, hand next to her face, “It won’t be a problem.”

“Oh,” is Sam’s only reply, “I see,” and Ana regrets her phrasing a little, because _of course_ she can hear, and he cannot, what she meant was only that Sam is used to doing things differently, without her here, has made adaptations to life that are not as necessary, when she is with him. No rephrasing it now, though, and she knows he hates when she tries to explain what she meant—would honestly prefer they just moved on, rather than dwell further as she attempts to apologize.

“We can unlock it when we’re done,” she tells him, “Okay?” That way, if something happens and Fareeha needs them, he will be equally useful, will not have to rely on her hearing their daughter, but there is not a chance, either, that they will be walked in on.

“Okay,” he signs back and then, after a pause, and another kiss, and another, he steps back just enough to sign, “Bed?” And a somewhat chagrined explanation, “I don’t think I can hold you up after earlier.” Earlier being, of course, when their beautiful daughter, who knows neither her strength nor size, wrenched his shoulder rather badly whilst playing.

“So romantic,” says she, and hopes her face conveys that she is only teasing him, because she does not want him to be any different than he is, and he is romantic enough _outside_ of their sex life to make up for most anything.

This time it is she who leads him, pulls him by his uninjured shoulder to the bed, before turning him around so she can straddle him. She is out of practice, has not given him _this_ sort of kiss in so long, has been limited by both Fareeha’s presence and her own insecurity, but neither has he, and so she does not feel so badly about it. At first, they are messy—more so than usual—bump noses and click teeth in a way that they never would have, before, when they lived together full-time and did this far, far more often, but quickly enough they remember a rhythm that works for them, or perhaps find a new one, and not only is Ana enjoying this, but Sam clearly is, too, she can feel it when she grinds down against him.

Knowing that he is as aroused as she is, if not more than, helps her to relax quite a bit, stops her from worrying so much about what he will think of her body, as it is now, and that in turn allows her to focus on the _other_ things she is feeling. Things such as his lips on hers, soft as ever—she asked him to start wearing chapstick years ago, and he has never stopped—and the hand that has reached down to grab at her ass, and her own arousal building in response to this, to the familiar sensations. 

It is funny to think that this, of all things, is what would make her relax, when sex is in and of itself such a vulnerable thing, and she has been worried about it the entire time she has been home, about whether or not he would want to, or she would want to after his reaction to her, but it seems that things are not quite nearly so stressful as she had imagined. 

_Seems._

And then he starts to pull at the hem of her shirt, and she backs off quickly, stumbles off of him and holds herself, confidence evaporating at once.

(If she were honest with herself, she would know that it is more than just confidence that is the issue, is a problem with the act of _being undressed_ by someone, of handing over power and accepting that vulnerability, but Ana is not, in fact, in the habit of being honest with herself, if she can avoid it. This is a childish insecurity, and nothing more. That, she tells herself, and that she must believe, because she can berate herself for being childish, but cannot face that war might be changing something in her, something necessary in order to love and to be loved by another.)

“Sorry,” he responds immediately to her having moved off him, and the motion as he does so is small—like a whisper.

“It’s _fine,_ ” Ana’s movements are sharp, jerky, “I just want to undress myself. Turn around for a moment, would you?” Or, rather, she says something as close to that as she can manage; she is not so practiced in signing as she used to be, and sometimes her phrasing is more awkward than she would like, so different from Sam and Fareeha’s easy fluency.

“We don’t have to do this,” Sam says, “If you don’t want.”

“I do,” Ana says, certainly. Then, her movements hesitate a bit more, “Do you?”

“Of course,” and the smile on Sam’s face says that this is the easiest answer in the world. “But,” his face is more serious then, and his head tilts a question, “I can turn off the lights?”

“No,” says Ana, and more certainly when she repeats it, “No. Just turn around.” 

Better, if she is going to do this at all, to commit to it fully. Hesitation would kill her, in the field, and off of it she finds she can no longer abide by half measures. 

Sam does as she asks of him, and she removes her clothes far more carefully than she normally would, in this situation, takes the time to set them aside neatly, and to make sure all pins are removed from her hair. For a moment she considers, too, removing her makeup, so he can _truly_ see all of her, exactly as she is, but the eyeliner she is wearing is a pain to remove, and she does not want him to take her having wandered off the wrong way.

(Besides which, he _has_ seen her without that already, so it is not the most terrible thing if she leaves it on now.)

When she is done, she takes a moment to look down at herself, not taking an accounting, quite but considering, certainly. She is not _un_ attractive, she thinks, even if it is hard for her to feel sensual, these days. Although she is currently hairier than she would like, and her scars have taken some adjusting to, her body has served her well—will continue to do so—and is that not what truly matters?

Well, Sam finding her attractive does matter quite a bit, too, but at least she feels good enough about herself that her own feelings about her body will not prevent her from enjoying this.

So she takes a deep breath, just like she does before taking a shot, empties her lungs, like she has been trained, and taps him on the shoulder, so he knows that he can once again turn around.

He does so quickly, and she signs “Eager,” hands rubbing together as she does so.

His response is not quite what she envisioned, is not to say _beautiful_ or _perfect_ or any one of a number of compliments which might suffice, or reach out and immediately pull her in for another kiss. Instead, it is better, is “Can I touch?” finger tapping against the back of his own palm.

“Of course,” says she, but is secretly very relieved that he asked, because lately, she does not like it when people touch her without warning—something that has been very hard to disguise when she is here, at home, among people who should not have to ask before they hug her, and never have before.

But then he surprises her again, does not pull her down, or move to cup her face, or grab her breasts. Instead, he traces over the largest, most visible scar on her abdomen, and then down to the hair on her stomach, before sweeping out to her sides and coming to rest on the outer part of her hips, and he holds her there steadily as he just _looks._

She should not feel embarrassed, she knows, not of anything about herself, but particularly not her body, but it is hard to unlearn the shame she has been taught, and her face heats and she wants to look away—would, if they could communicate with one another without looking. “Don’t stare,” she says, hand in front of her face, jabbing motion almost accusing.

“Sorry,” he removes his hands to reply, “You’ve changed a lot.”

“Yes,” she agrees, not sure if he means it well, or poorly, or if he is simply stating a fact. “You haven’t.”

“I have,” he tells her, and his face is reassuring, expressive in the way that only people who rely on such cues to communicate are, “Just differently. Change is good.”

“Is it?” she asks him, not sure anymore if she means her body or her demeanor or the way in which things between them are so different, now, the little things which have twisted the familiar into the unfamiliar.

“It’s natural,” he says, and then a grin as he taps his arm, “And I like the muscles.”

“You said you liked the fat before,” she says, thinking of his reaction to her post-partum body.

“I like you every way,” he says, and the broadness of the gesture exaggerates the word every.

“Sweet-talker,” she tells him, and kisses him again, hands wandering this time to unbutton his shirt as she does so, pushing it off of his shoulders to give her access to his chest. Whereas her own skin is dimpled with little scars and stretch marks, his is smooth, and she likes the feel of it beneath her palms, the way she can track the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes and the beating of his heart.

She likes it, but not enough to stay like this forever, particularly not in the cold of Canadian winter. Better to keep things moving a bit more, to warm her up.

So she pushes him down to lie on his back, presses kisses down his chest and stomach as she finishes pulling his shirt to the sides, and moves to the fly of his pants—before remembering that he is stubbornly insistent on wearing shoes in their house, and she has to remove those first.

When she drops down to her knees to remove the offending boots, he props himself up on his elbows immediately, eyebrows shooting up.

“Don’t get excited,” she tells him with a laugh; she has never particularly enjoyed giving blowjobs, and she is not about to start now. “I’m just taking your shoes off.”

“Damn,” he says, but the amused look on his face belies his words, and he moves to help her, ignoring that she had pushed him down only a minute before. Although he usually listens when she gives him small orders in the bedroom like that, she is apparently taking too long trying to figure out exactly how he has knotted his laces, and he speeds things along by doing it himself, kicking off his shoes and socks then shucking his pants very quickly.

“You’re impatient tonight,” she tells him, and he laughs at that.

“It’s been over a year, Ana.”

Well, fair enough. She moves to the center of the bed and pulls him to her, again, drawing him in for another deep kiss rather than lingering on conversation any longer. It _has_ been a rather long time, and now that she is no longer worrying about her body, or his reaction to it, or whether or not they will still have chemistry, and want each other—now that she knows where things are headed, it is much harder to ignore that fact.

Fortunately, Sam is not keen on wasting any more time either, and quickly his hands move from her shoulders to her breasts, and if Ana had ever doubted his ability to remember what it is she likes—well, she does not doubt, now. It makes sense that a man who relies on his hands as much as Sam does, both to speak and for all of his hobbies, would know what to do with them, and certainly Ana never _forgot_ that fact, but remembering to herself when her own hands felt woefully inadequate is not nearly the same as experiencing this, again.

Of the two of them, she is supposed to be the patient one, as she is a sniper, after all, but her patience at work has never quite translated to her experiences in the bedroom, and it is not long before Ana is trying to coax him to speed up, one hand tangling in his long hair as she kisses him even deeper, and the other reaching down between them, slipping into his underwear. She waits a moment, before she grabs his cock, gives him time to pull away or to ask her to stop, but he rolls his hips towards her as if to ask her to _hurry up_ and she obliges. 

Already, he is most of the way to fully erect, so it does not take long before he seems to take her hint and speed things up, breaking their kiss long enough to lean her back gently—more so than usual, but Ana is grateful, because even if she _is_ healed enough to be doing this, she did have surgery recently—and then remove his underwear, clumsily in his haste, before returning to lean over her.

Three kisses to the corner of her mouth, in quick succession, their way of saying _I love you_ when their hands are otherwise occupied, and it should feel good—it _does,_ when his hand reaches down to rub at her center _—_ but there is something so overwhelming about this, about him being on top of her, and she realizes, suddenly, that she does not want this, not like this, that she feels trapped and—

(—She should not. He is not pinning her down, and her hands are free, and none of his weight is on her, but his breath is hot on her face and the last time she was on her back like this, it was not under these circumstances, and it only grows worse by the second, the feeling that she is trapped, and she knows that if she tries to just grin and bear this, it will not work, and it will be worse, if he realizes that something is wrong, because he will feel guilty, as if it were his fault, and not hers for not saying something, and—)

—Both of her hands come upwards on his chest, and she means to just tap him, to tell him to stop, for a moment, or slow down, but she shoves, and he practically jumps off of her, moves to sit further from her on the bed. She sits up too, quickly as she can, feels a bit dizzy from the sudden rush of blood from her head, and there is a moment of silence, wherein they just look at each other, him worried, and confused, and her looking for something. What it is, she does not know, and does not find it either.

“I’m sorry,” he signs, after what feels like a very long time, but is more likely only a few seconds, and then, “Did I hurt you?” and he looks so _concerned_ , when he should be angry, instead, that she pushed him, or at least annoyed, because she should know better than to lose control like that.

She is safe here, at home. She _is._

(Why does she not feel that way?)

“No,” she says, after a moment too long, “I’m fine,” and she _is,_ because she has to be, and he did not hurt her, anyway, never has and never will. Unfortunately, this is not about him, is about her inability to leave her work where it belongs, in the field.

“Are you sure?” he asks her. “We can stop.”

“No,” says she, and her vehemence is communicated in the sharpness of her motion. “I’m fine,” she repeats, and does not believe it any more the second time, “I didn’t mean to—” To what? She cannot put it to words.

“It’s okay,” he tells her, moves a little closer, knee bumping one of hers reassuringly, “You just surprised me.”

“I’m sorry,” says she, and she is, even if she hates how many apologies they have exchanged tonight. What is more, she feels that they were her fault, and that is only another thing to be sorry for, that she has changed and things have become so difficult between them that they have trouble even doing that which they both want to do. “I don’t know why I pushed you.” She cannot make eye contact as she signs _push,_ the exact shoving motion she just made.

“I’m not hurt,” he tells her, and he uses one hand to say it, this time, emphasizing that he is not hurting _emotionally,_ either, and she appreciates it, she does.

He is always so much better at saying what he means than she. Perhaps that is the advantage he has, having always known sign, unlike her, who learned it for him—but he expresses himself better when he writes, too, and Ana thinks that it does not matter what language they use, that he will always be the better communicator, for he knows better than she what he is _feeling,_ and therefore what it is he actually intends to say. 

What she wants to say is: The last thing I want is to hurt you, or Fareeha, because the two of you are the only good things in my life, these days, the only thing that keeps me from giving up, when it feels like the only option.

What she wants to say is: I am terrified that I will do something wrong, that I no longer fit, in this life you and our daughter have together, I am afraid that I do not belong with the two of you, or anywhere, that the only life left to me is that of a soldier, wandering from battle to battle, no home to call my own.

What she wants to say is: It scares me, the person who I am becoming, and I cannot say what has changed, cannot put to words why it is that I feel so off, only that I _do_ , and there is a distance now where there was not before, I know, and it is my fault; you deserve someone better than me, someone who does not panic at the thought of being held down, because I know you would never hurt me, even if I cannot feel that such is true.

What she actually says is, “Maybe we shouldn’t…” and does not complete the thought. Should not what? Should not allow themselves to do this, should not act like everything is fine, when there is a gulf between them that never existed before, air weighed down with all Ana cannot say? Should take a break, a moment to regroup, while Ana considers what it is that she _can_ tolerate?

“Okay,” says he, and moves to stand.

“Wait—” she signs, and wishes it did not take both hands, so that she could hold him where he is. “Where are you going?” 

(She does not say _I need you,_ even though it does feel true. What she wants is to be able to push through this, to show somehow that she _does_ still care for him, still want him, that she is capable, still, of loving and being loved. What she also wants is to be held. She can bring herself to ask for neither.)

“To deal with…” he gestures down to his crotch, obviously embarrassed.

“We aren’t _done_ ,” Ana tells him, “Unless you want to stop?” She hates how many times she has felt the need to ask that, tonight, because normally, it is obvious that they are both very interested in continuing these things—or, whatever normal _was,_ well over a year ago, the last time they had the chance—and she is not so unsure. Lately, it feels like she cannot read him the way she used to.

“I just meant…” What did she mean? “Not like that.” Usually, she appreciates the descriptiveness of sign, the expressiveness, but the fact that the first way she thinks to sign ‘like that’ is as ‘no-push,’ lacking a better way to describe what _that_ was.

“Okay,” he signs, moving to sit again, close enough to be familiar but not so close as to in any way pressure her into contact. A comfortable distance, if not an intimate one. “How?”

“Maybe,” says she, “With me on top?”

“If you want,” says he, phrasing noncommittal even as he gives himself away in the way he bites at his lip, does not quite look her in the eye—he _very_ much likes the suggestion.

“I do,” says she, and she crawls the short distance across the bed to kiss him, again, but this time it is she who is driving the moment, she who is in control of their pace, moving up to kneel so that she has the height advantage, despite the actual difference in size between them. It feels better, this way, even if neither of them is often truly _in control_ of a situation, she no longer feels so uncharacteristically powerless as she did, nor so panicked. This is good, this is right, and before long she finds herself returning to a state of higher arousal, and she urges Sam to lie back.

Unlike him, she does not like to take her time, does not want to tease, and does not need to check to ensure that he is ready. Does she rush? No, her gaze does linger, as she traces the lines of his form, and she does think, for a moment, about bending down to kiss his lips, his chest, thinks about biting little marks into his skin or watching it raise when she scrapes her nails down it. She thinks about it, and discards the idea. Best not to do anything that mirrors too closely the incident just a few minutes before, and it is more comfortable, for her, if she stays more upright anyway.

Making eye contact again, she asks him a quick question, “Ready?” even though she knows the answer, and when he nods his assent she reaches down to ensure he is lined up properly, and—

She freezes, again, but this time for good reason. “Shit,” says she moving from her position straddling him to sit beside his hips, “Birth control.” It is a simple sign, just _B.C._ , but it does not feel simple when she makes it.

A frown, from Sam, who moves to sit up again, “What about it?”

“I…” she hesitates, for a moment, embarrassed, “I’m not sure if I’ve taken it consistently enough, this past month.” She should not feel guilty for this—there has been a lot on her mind, lately, and she _did_ have surgery, not to mention that they are both responsible for preventing conception—but she does, a bit, because she is usually so good about it, started taking the pill after Fareeha was born and, up until this past year, never missed a dose. And now she has, she is almost certain of it, and at the worst time, too. Of _course_ she would be inconsistent during the one month at home granted to her.

(It used to be that things were easier for her to remember, and routines were easier for her to follow, but lately, she feels herself slipping, little things more difficult than they once were. This morning, she was nearly in tears trying to follow a recipe, because she realized suddenly that she could not remember the conversion between tablespoons and cups. A year ago, two, this would not have been an issue.)

“I see,” says Sam, and he does not seem disappointed, exactly, just thoughtful. “I don’t have condoms,” and Ana supposes she should be glad to hear that—he should not have any use for them, lately, with her so often away on other continents, “But,” he perks up, a bit, “I could go get some.”

That ought to be appealing, to Ana, ought to be a solution to their problem—and a quick one, too, as the nearest store is only a ten minute drive away—but still something about it makes her nervous. Fareeha was a fluke, and Ana knows that, an accident. Most of the time, condoms do not break, and emergency contraception works, and people do not find themselves with a daughter, a few months later. _Most_ of the time. But what if it happens again?

It could, Ana knows. They could be that unlucky, and that terrifies her. She loves her daughter, she does, but the thought of creating life, now, bringing a child into a world that is so unstable, so dangerous, one that demands she risk her life every day, modify her body so she can kill more effectively, leave her child behind to be raised only by her father—it makes her sick, to think about. Sick with worry, and sick with dread.

(There is guilt, too, a fair dose of it. It is not _just_ that there is a war, and a pregnancy would render her powerless in such uncertain times, barred from service until the birth of her child. Ana does not feel ready to be a mother again, emotionally, does not think that she wants to care for another baby, feels she can barely care for Fareeha adequately. What does it say about her, as a parent, that she is afraid, unwilling to do such again? Surely it must reflect badly on her, and she does not know what to tell Sam about that thought. Someday, he wants more children, but suddenly the thought makes Ana feel sick. She cannot bear to have another child—not now, maybe not ever.)

“No,” says Ana, and then, less emphatically, “No,” again, “If we could use those effectively we wouldn’t be parents.” She chooses her words carefully, here—the sign for unplanned pregnancy is one she does not like, the associated expression so negative, and not at all reflective of how she feels about her daughter. Fareeha might not have been planned, but she is still very loved.

An amused sound from Sam at that, and then, “You might have a point.”

“Might?” She arches an eyebrow at him.

“You always do,” he is half teasing, before his expression grows more serious. “No penetration, then,” a statement, not a question.

“Preferably not,” Ana makes sure that her face is sufficiently apologetic, because she _does_ feel bad about this, wishes she were comfortable doing more, right now, and that things were as simple as they used to be, when she and her husband had an easy chemistry and did not need these long discussions to find something that worked for them. 

(In fact, it was easier then for many reasons. Having to _talk_ about sex makes things more difficult for Ana, who always feels awkward with the rather vulgar nature of signing such things. She is not a prude, of course, can be as ribald in spoken language as any of the many soldiers she serves with, but something about acting out the motions, having to make a corresponding expression, it embarrasses her in a way other forms of communication do not. Unlike Sam, it is not second nature to her to be so expressive, and it makes having these discussions more difficult still, as she tries to talk around using specific terms.)

“I can still go down on you,” he says, and while Ana has always appreciated how descriptive Sam can be, the fact that he specifically chooses the sign for cunnilingus which includes the information that he would be fingering her as well seems unnecessary. At least, she supposes, his enthusiasm is never in question.

“I’d feel bad,” says she, taps a one hand shape over her heart three times for _guilty_. “For not doing much in return.”

“You don’t have to,” he tells her, earnest as ever, and she knows that, she does, knows that he enjoys pleasing her just for the sake of her own enjoyment, and does not do so in the hopes that she will reciprocate. But she hates to think that she will hardly be doing more for him than he could do for himself, if all that comes of this is him getting a handjob. After all, it _has_ been over a year.

(That she _should not_ feel guilty is not enough to stop her, but she does not want to repeat it, because she knows, too, that it would upset Sam, to know that she feels unhappy, even if only with herself, and then the night would be truly ruined. So, after a moment in which she considers all possible alternatives, she does what she always does, in situations like this, pushes her own guilt and embarrassment aside in favor of a better outcome.)

“I could penetrate you,” she suggests, hopes Sam does not confuse her discomfort with making the sign for a lack of interest in the act itself. In fact, it is something she quite enjoys, when they do it, even if the preparation required can be inconvenient. It is something he enjoys, too, and while it is not the same, perhaps, as their original plans, it is still something that neither of them could do alone, is therefore making the most of their time together.

“Please,” his response is immediate, and excited.

“You should probably,” Ana frowns, considers for a moment a euphemistic way to phrase this, “Clean up first.”

“I might have, already,” he _does_ use the sign for enema, but seems just as embarrassed as her when he does so.

“Really?” Perhaps his spontaneous seduction tonight was not so unplanned as she thought.

“I was going to ask,” says he, signs _request_ specifically, “But then I didn’t want to pressure you.”

(There is something there he does not say, but Ana thinks is implied, that her response to so many steps of this process was less than ideal, and so he thought the better of it, went with only things he was used to her being comfortable with. She appreciates the effort, even if his asking might have actually ended in less trouble for the both of them.)

“Fortunately,” she tells him, “You didn’t have to.” Any pressure Ana feels in their relationship comes from things only internal to herself. 

If he responds, she does not see it, for she crawls off the bed, then, and over to their nightstand, checks the top drawer, then the middle, and then with growing concern the bottom one. She turns to look at Sam, then, asks, “Where’s the dildo?” her confusion overcoming her embarrassment for the moment.

“Fareeha went through a phase last year,” Sam explains, “Where she opened every drawer in the house and asked the name of what was inside.”

“She didn’t—”

“No,” Sam starts before she can finish forming the sentence, “I moved things proactively.”

“Thank God,” Ana says out loud, and then has to repeat herself in sign. That her daughter is inquisitive is likely a good thing—it is too early, yet, to be certain, but Ana thinks that Fareeha is probably bright, and hopes that curiosity will lead her down a good path, a safe one—but Ana _certainly_ draws a line at her three year old discovering the existence of sex toys.

“You’re welcome,” Sam signs with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Ana tells him. “Where is it now?”

“Closet, top shelf.”

“You’ll have to get it down, then,” Ana is not a short woman, is slightly on the tall side of average, but Sam is far taller than most people, and there is no sense in her jumping to reach it when he could grab it easily.

He does so, and hands it to her with a little flourish before returning to sit again on the bed. She wants to say _very funny_ , but her hands are rather full for that.

Despite how long it has been, Ana has no trouble remembering how to untangle the harness, slipping it on and tightening it the just-right amount with relative ease. By now, she has done this enough times, with Sam and with a few lovers before him, that she thinks it is muscle memory, the same as loading her gun.

Well, not quite the same as that. As fond as Ana is of her Kinamura, and despite how deeply personal a sniper’s rifle is to them, despite how seamless of an extension of herself it can be, in the field—it is a very different thing, wielding it and slipping on a strap-on. It may feel _right_ , wielding her gun, but it is never an enjoyable thing, whereas the silicone cock she slides into the o-ring of her harness is something else entirely, something which derives its power from the ability to bring pleasure, rather than pain.

It looks nicer, too. They wanted something realistic, when they chose it, and it is so, matches her skin tone nicely and, while certainly not as large as some other models, looks proportionate to her body, perpetuating the illusion that it is not, in fact, a toy at all. The size is no sacrifice, in any case, as it is big enough to do everything they would like it to.

They, thinks she, because she and Sam picked the toy together, a few years ago, wanted something to replace the old one, and there is something pleasant about that, about thinking of it as a vehicle for their shared pleasure.

And, on the subject of shared pleasure, Ana supposes she had better not keep Sam waiting too much longer, although she is certain he is enjoying staring as much as she is. Both of them are, after all, very visual people.

In the end, it is still better to feel _and_ to see, however, and this thought propels her into motion, again, moving again onto the bed and towards the center where Sam is lying back, his own cock in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. As she moves, she keeps her eyes on him, both because he looks so irresistible and also to avoid looking down—the way the always-erect dildo bounces as she moves never fails to make her laugh, and she would like very much, now, to focus on other things, such as how very, very ready her husband seems to be.

When she reaches him, she leans down for a quick kiss, first to his lips and then three, in succession at the corner of his mouth, another little _I love you_ , her hair falling to curtain both of their faces, and despite the anticipation of what is to come, it is a brief moment with no expectations, or pressure with it.

Then, she plucks the lube from his left hand and moves herself between his legs. She slicks up one finger, two, and inserts the first gently, slowly, just to be certain that she does not hurt him. As she expected, it is not terribly difficult—although she does not know how he manages to find the time, or privacy, the fact that Sam likes, sometimes, to penetrate himself when he masturbates is not a secret to her, and so it has not been _too_ long, probably, since something like this last happened—but Ana is always careful, just as he is with her. It hurts nothing to ease into things.

And ease into them she does, slipping in a second finger, taking her time. In truth, she takes more time than she needs to, but she enjoys watching Sam get worked up, as he wants her to move _faster,_ to do more. She will, eventually. When he asks, perhaps.

(Sometimes, in the past, she would not even then, would wait until past that point, but that, too, is something that they will have to readjust to. Reading him is harder, now, than it was when they saw each other every day, and she doubts she could instinctively determine his limits anymore. One day, they will reach that point again, and it is something to discuss, in the future, but for now, she will not be too hard on him.)

Ask he does, and fairly quickly, by their standards, although it is several minutes later, uses his off-hand to sign her name, and to say “Please.” It is a polite request, and a calm one; he is nowhere near desperate for her to move on, yet, is mildly frustrated at best, and she knows that normally he would have waited longer before asking, but this time, she lets it slide. If he wants her to _really_ push him, he will let her know.

He seems happy enough to have her move on, although he pouts slightly when she removes her fingers, full bottom lip moving just far enough for Ana to notice the change in his expression, and chide him for it. “Be patient,” says she, and notices the obscene way her lubed up fingers glint in the light when she moves them.

No answer from Sam, but he stills the hand on his cock when she says this, thumb no longer rubbing gentle circles on the head. 

“Thank you,” he does not like to be praised, when he obeys her, because even if he likes for her to call the shots, he dislikes feeling unequal in that sort of way, much prefers simple politeness, recognition that he has _chosen_ to obey her.

(It is a distinction that Ana does not think would matter to her, were she in his position, but she wants for him to be happy, more than anything, and she supposes there is something romantic about it, the emphasis on equality in everything, even during exchanges of power. If this is what he likes, then she will do it.)

More lube, this time placed directly on the strap-on, which makes an obscene squelch when she runs her hand down it, one that _almost_ makes her giggle, lips quirking upwards in a smile.

A confused look from Sam, at her face, and she tells him, “Dirty noise,” to which he rolls his eyes.

“Mature,” he spells at her, one hand still frozen on his cock.

“You love me anyway,” she says, and is about to look down again when she sees him reply.

“Yes,” he agrees, and Ana is surprised by how much hearing that affects her, has to look down then, and focus on the task at hand.

(It should not affect her so. Of _course_ he loves her, he is her husband, and he tells her regularly, but right now she feels less than lovable, especially after how tonight has gone, feels like she has made a good number of things in their relationship harder, particularly of late, and if he did not love her anymore, she would understand. But he does love her, he does, even now when he is seeing all the little ways in which war has affected her, makes complicated what once was simple. If ever there was a time to feel differently about her, she would think it would be now, because she is usually better at hiding the ways in which she has changed, the signs that she is not quite the woman she was, any longer. Yet he has seen them, now, and says he loves her still. After what she has seen, and done, she does not know if she deserves it.)

Maybe she puts a little _too_ much focus on what she is doing, at the moment, because she is a bit less gentle than she would normally be, a bit less cautious, and is met with a sound of surprise from Sam.

Immediately, she freezes. “Sorry,” says she, bracing herself with one hand and signing with the other, “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupts her, hand moving from himself and to his chest as he speaks, “Just unexpected.”

“You’re certain?” asks she.

“Very,” and she believes it when he says this—he would not lie to her, even to be kind, not when she asks him a question directly. 

Still, she feels a bit guilty, knows that although he has in the past enjoyed things faster and rougher than the two of them usually move, he generally prefers something a bit gentler, more measured.

So she is slower, even, than usual, as she proceeds, takes her time to ensure he is comfortable as possible, and only begins to move when he begins to grow impatient, when she can see that in the way his hand clenches the sheets, the way he shifts beneath her. As per her request—not _orders_ , not ever that, because he does not like to think of any sort of power imbalance existing between them, even in play—he is not doing anything more, is not touching himself or truly moving against her, not trying to get himself off, is clearly attempting to be patient, as she asked of him, but is growing restless.

But his impatience is not enough to make her move quickly, only to do so at all. It has been a while, not just for him but for her, and she wants some time to adjust, too, to doing this again, still does not know why she panicked earlier, and does not want to risk that this will somehow, too, end similarly. 

If Sam misinterprets that caution as teasing, well, all the better. Why should he worry over her? She is fine.

(She is fine, she is fine, she is _fine,_ this she swears to herself, and it must be so. There is no reason for her not to be, is nothing wrong with her. She has not been injured, not any more so than any of her comrades, and they are all fine. So too must she be. Already, she has proven that she is not weaker than them, for being a woman, but the worry will always be there, at the back of her mind, that if she does not continue to do so then they will begin to think less of her, will see that, all along, she was somehow _lesser_ , even though she knows she is not, and knows that the members of the Strike Team are not misogynists. One moment of panic does not mean she has lost her nerves, does not mean she is too weak, too emotional, too fragile to be in the field. But still—she is careful to take steps, now to ensure it does not happen again, even here, with her husband, who she knows is not a military man, does not think himself in any way stronger than she, or better.)

She is fine, because she has to be, and she is fine, because once she finally finds her way back to a familiar rhythm, begins to watch Sam respond, breath coming faster, head tossing back, long column of his neck exposed such that she can lean down further to suck a mark on it—once she finds herself back in the territory of the familiar, the sight once again becomes pleasurable for her.

Now, when she thrusts, she is conscious of the feeling of the base of the dildo against her clit, the friction and pressure she gets when she grinds her hips just so. She is aware, too, of just how beautiful her husband is, like this, beneath her, how graceful and willing and wanton and _hers._

No matter how she feels about herself, having been through the things she has on the front, no matter how she thinks she might look, or whether she thinks she is capable of anything other than to harm, it is evident that Sam feels differently about her. To him, she is still someone capable of being sexual, of being sensual, someone he trusts enough to do this, and enjoys being with, like this.

More than anything, more than the sight, the slight noises he is making, more than the feeling of their skin meeting on a particularly deep thrust, _that_ is what arouses her, the knowledge that her body, and therefore herself, is still something seen as desirable, at least by the person whose opinion matters most to her.

And so it feels less awkward, feels more right, and gradually Ana begins to focus less on the specifics of what she is doing, the processes, less on her own insecurities and thoughts and worries about what earlier means for them, their future, what it means for her, and instead focuses on how much she is enjoying this, and how much Sam is.

In the light, she sees a sheen of sweat on his skin, and is grateful that they are not in the dark. Generally, sweat does not attract her, but like this, it only highlights how smooth his skin is, how unblemished. Her own is no longer so, has become scarred by childbirth, by fighting, by the realities of life in the field, and the dangers that presents. But he is whole, is unmarked, at least physically, by the war around them, and she thinks—well, that is worth it. At times the fighting seems endless, and feels as if it is for nothing, but here and now she can see, feel the result of her hard work.

No matter what the war has done to her, she cannot see a single mark it has left on Sam. If nothing else, she has succeeded in protecting him, has ensured that he is still the perfect man she fell in love with, several years ago. Any sacrifice is worth that, even if she feels she is not at all the woman she once was.

And if she is not, does it matter? At least now, like this, he still wants her. At least, even if she cannot stand to have him above her, they can do something together, can still enjoy each other.

Evidence of just how much he is enjoying this, she can feel against her, in the way that when she leans down as far as she can to kiss him, she feels his cock brush against her stomach, feels the wetness at the tip. Bracing herself on one hand for just a moment, she reaches down between them, takes him in her hand, feels how hard he is, how wet, thumbs over his head and—

\--jerks her hand back sits up as quickly as she is able, and signs “Quiet!” with both hands.

Color drains from Sam’s face. “Shit,” says he, “How loud—Do you think Fareeha heard?”

For a moment, Ana just listens, waits to see if there is any noise in the hallway, or at the door, any sound from the direction of her daughter’s room. “No,” says she, “But the walls are thin.” When they bought the house, that had not been a concern. After all, Ana rather likes that no one could possibly enter without her hearing them, and Sam does not need to worry about his sleep being disturbed by sounds from elsewhere. But they have a daughter now, one who is old enough to hear things, to ask questions, and suddenly the room that was intended only as a home office for Sam being so near to their bedroom, and so very not soundproof, is a problem.

“I’m sorry,” says he, “I’ll be quiet.”

“It’s fine,” Ana hopes her expression is reassuring. Even as she says this, she is reassuring herself—the worst that will happen is that their daughter _might_ knock, and wonder what is going on, and they will have to abandon this for now, and try again tomorrow night. That is not such a bad thing.

What it is, however, is a decidedly unsexy concern, and Ana can see, when she finally glances back down, that Sam is suddenly far less into this than he was only a minute ago.

“I didn’t think about—” Sam starts, and then, “We haven’t had to worry about noise.”

“It’s fine,” Ana repeats herself, wishes that the sign for _okay_ were more communicative, or that she could think of a better word for it, right now. “Nothing happened.”

(And in truth, she feels better for this having happened, although she will not tell him that. For this, she is not responsible, and it is good to know that it is not only she who needs to adjust to how things have changed, while she has been away, who has to worry about something new. But she will not tell him this, for to do so would be to admit that she _is_ worried, about other things, about herself and the way she has reacted, about whether or not they will ever go back to normal, now, or if she is the only one of the two of them changing, leaving him behind and becoming someone new. That is not so, as now she knows, and in a way, it is comforting. War is changing her, yes, but time, too, is changing things, and even if she had never left, certain aspects of their relationship would have been transformed by it.)

“We can stop,” he suggests, yet again.

“I don’t really want to,” she admits, this time. If he wants to, she will, but she was enjoying herself, just a minute or two ago, was finally feeling a bit like her old self, when she had not before for the entirety of her visit, and she does not want to stop now, when she was only just finding herself again, only just beginning to really feel comfortable, and stop worrying about whether or not she was still someone who belonged in his life.

If he does not want to continue, then she will stop, of course, but if it is up to her…

“Me neither,” he admits, grins a little, “We were just getting to the good part.”

Ana grins back at him, too, knows that the expression is not particularly sexy and does not care, does not feel the need to act around him, even if said act would only be making herself look a bit more appealing, in the moment. “Good,” says she, and nothing more, starts to move again, a bit more slowly, reaches down to grab him and—

—He stops her. The grip of his hand around her wrist is gentle, not enough to physically restrain her, but enough that she knows to pause.

“Maybe I should do that,” he suggests, “Just so you don’t surprise me again?” and then, hastily, “Not that I minded! It’s just…”

“…Maybe you didn’t mind enough?”

“Yes,” says he, “That.”

Ana has no complaints. If he wants to put on a show for her, he is welcome to, but, “Don’t come until I tell you?”

It is a proposition, not an order, and she tilts her head just so, such that he does not misunderstand her.

He grins wider, excitement more endearing than arousing, and quickly agrees.

So things begin, again. And this time, Ana hopes, they will actually go smoothly, be somehow less awkward—although, of course, now that the awkwardness has not all been the result of her having left, and returned, and not anticipated the ways in which the years would have left her changed, she does not mind so much.

It takes some time to get back to where they were, but this time Ana is not slow out of caution, exactly, is not taking her time because this has grown somehow unfamiliar, or because she is not sure how she will react, merely takes her time in getting back into things so that she can fully enjoy herself.

Of course, she cannot take _too_ long. While it is true that she might be enjoying this, might be aroused by the sight of it, the stimulation she gets from the toy against herself, the thought that this is still something she is capable of, that she is still attractive and worthy of love, ultimately this cannot be all at her own pace. Sam, too, is experiencing this for the first time in more than a year, and although the stimulation _she_ is currently experiencing is not enough, quite, for her to come, even if she were to try very hard, the same cannot be said for him.

He is very good, in honoring her request, but she notices when his hand stills for a moment, two, in time with her stronger thrusts, as if the combination of the two would be too much for him. He does not ask her for more—or has not yet, rather—does not ask if she would mind if he came, now, and tended to her, but Ana knows that he might have normally, can see the signs there that he would. He is not looking at her any longer, head tossed back at an angle, and his free hand finds its way on top of one of hers, squeezes it in time with her thrusts. 

Where they touch, she can feel how warm his skin has gotten, the gold of his wedding ring a cool contrast to his skin. Always, he has run warmer than her. She wonders what it must be like for him, the heat and the pressure and the stimulation, inside and out and emotional all at once. Probably, his experiences are not so much different than her own, but she realizes that she has no real way of knowing, can never be sure how differently she feels things than he. In another context, it might be a sad realization, but here and now she is glad for the difference, is happy to know that what for her might be overwhelming in a bad way, might be too much all at once, is instead for him something wonderful, to be able to just for a moment be consumed by another person, in every way possible.

(She would never allow someone else to do the same to her. Not even him. To give over control would be too much, too dangerous, too terrifying. But she loves him, she does, and wishes that she could, sometimes, wishes that she were the sort of person who could ever trust a person enough to give wholly of herself to another. If ever that were going to be possible for her, it surely cannot be now, after what she has seen and done in the Crisis. Trust comes even less easily than before, and control is something she needs, desperately—and Sam gives it to her, as much as she is willing to ask of him, as much as she feels is right to ask, without making him feel as if he is unequal in any way.)

There is vulnerability in it, the way he is lying there beneath her, back arched off the sheets, throat exposed, naked in both the colloquial sense and the actual, and she knows that it is something that she wants for herself, yes, but fears what it would mean to have. She will settle, instead, for this, for him to be vulnerable, to take on that risk for her, and be the one to bridge the gap between them in that way. Surely, that will be enough. It must be.

And in this moment, at least, it does not feel inadequate, feels more than enough. He is vulnerable for both of them, and she is strong, and that is fine, it _is_ , and makes her feel better, as if the control she is feigning were actually real.

(She is, now, so very aware of what an illusion it is, how little in control of _herself_ she is, how little command she has over her own fears, her own insecurities, but she can pretend that she is in charge here, that she is able to do everything she has wanted to, or something equal to it. If Sam senses that anything is amiss, anything more than a moment of surprise earlier, he has not commented, and she knows that if he knew enough to worry, he would not be here now, beneath her as he is, would be far more focused on getting to the heart of the matter, and not getting off. So she is in control enough, for now.)

One hand, the one not beneath his own, she moves, brings to rest over his heart, for a moment, to feel the beat of it, the hammering, and the way his chest rises and falls, so fast. For a moment, she just rests it there, callouses of her palm against his soft, soft skin. It is perfect, that moment, the two of them connected over his heart and her hand, but she can feel him restless beneath her, notices the way he increasingly falls off rhythm, does not quite meet her thrusts, and she knows that this can only last for so long. It is a perfect moment, her in control of what it is she is doing, able to decide the pace and if things should end, knowing what an effect it is she has on him, how much he enjoys it, being with her like this, being _beneath_ her like this, but she knows also that it must end, and whatever pleasure it is she derives from this moment, it is still only that, a moment, a few scant seconds before she taps him twice on the chest, two fingers, draws his attention and signs to him that he can come, now.

It is not quite so sudden as that, of course, is not instantaneous, Sam changes his grip on himself, then, moves his own hips faster against her own, bites his lip in concentration, and only _then_ does he come, but the moment at which she gives him permission is the moment at which her own control over she situation ends, as he is wholly in control of himself, then, his own pleasure, is free to seek it at whatever speed and in whatever way he chooses, and although she contributes, too—the language of _giving_ someone an orgasm, as people so often use, is hardly applicable. 

And that is fine, because it is alright to not be in control, it _is_ , is something nice, only for a moment, but she does not want to control him, not really, not ever, only wants to feel in control of her own self, her own future, and a handful of seconds between them is really no surrogate for that.

Here is another, better thing: the pleasure he takes in her, the way he shakes beneath her, as he comes, the way his free hand grips hers more firmly, as if anchoring together, and the way that, when he is done, he moves to half sit up, props himself up with one elbow and signs “Thank you,” with his other hand, contented grin stretching across his face.

She rolls her eyes a bit, at that. It is hardly romantic, or even praise, but he is sincere, at least.

Even if he _were_ saying something terribly passionate, however, it would be hard to take it in that spirit, given that the hand he used still has his cum on it.

She, too, could not reply terribly romantically even if she tried, because her first order of business is removing the strap on, and the decidedly unflattering noise it makes as it does so makes her laugh, a bit. No matter where her mind may wander, in the midst of passion, it is still impossible to take this too seriously.

Noticing her laughing, Sam sits up to kiss her, but soon he is laughing, too, face half buried in her hair, as if it were contagious. For all that she worried about this, about whether or not they could still relate to each other, at least in this moment things are fine, are just as they always were, are happy and not at all marked by her experiences, her worries, her fears. They are fine, are not strangers to one another, are happy, even.

Of course, the moment ends, but the warmth of it lingers, Sam moving again to kiss quickly at the corner of her mouth, three times in succession, before backing up slightly to give her space, and to speak more easily.

“Your turn?” he asks her. Once, he might have assumed, but Ana is grateful, now, that he asks, instead, gives her the chance to consider.

“In a moment,” says she, “I have to take this off,” she gestures down to the harness, “And I’d prefer if you cleaned your hands, first.”

“Oh,” says Sam, “Right.”

(It has nothing to do with uncleanliness, although certainly Ana does not like the tacky feeling of drying cum, and everything to do with proper precaution, when preventing conception. Ever since Fareeha, Ana has become _very_ careful and knowledgeable about such things.)

So they move apart, in two opposite directions, Sam to clean off his hands, and presumably the rest of himself, and Ana to remove the harness, wipe it down as efficiently as possible, and box it up again. Perhaps this is not the most romantic interlude in their evening, but it is what they are comfortable with, caution and practicality, suits them well as people, and gives Ana a chance to regroup, to consider again exactly _how_ she would like for him to touch her, to try and decide what would be acceptable to her, after all. 

She does not want him on top of her, that much she knows, does not want to have to worry, again, about the feeling of being pinned down, the memories she now associates it with, far less pleasant than the ones of the past. If he were to go down on her, she thinks, that would be fine, because he would be between her legs, rather than anywhere near her face, or pinning down her torso—she will just have to ask him not to lay his palm on her abdomen, like he used to, to keep her hips from moving, will ask that he instead grabs her hips, or does not lay a hand on her at all. That, she thinks, is a reasonable enough request; he likes to use his mouth, even if she does not often do the same for him, and he is good at doing what she asks of him, when boundaries are involved, always remembers what it is she has told him. 

(He is very conscientious, which lately is a very good thing. Before the Crisis, it did not matter much, because there was little that upset her, but now—now she has to tell him to close all the doors, when they sleep, asks him to not stop her for conversation when she is in front of a window, a sightline, and tells him that if he wants to get her attention, he should move into her field of vision, rather than tapping her on the shoulder or flicking the lights, like he used to do. These rules, and many more, he has taken to heart so quickly one would think that they have always lived this way, that she has always needed so much from him. Not once has he complained, either, and she considers herself fortunate, for that, does not know what she would do, if he did say no to anything. How could she explain that she _needs_ this, how could she explain why? He cannot understand what has happened to her, and she does not want him to, either. She counts herself lucky, therefore, that he remembers her requests, and asks her no questions. Perhaps without even intending to do so, he has done for her exactly what she needs of him.)

For now, she does not box the harness, not properly, for it will need cleaning, but she sets it aside, and out of reach of Fareeha, just in case. There are many things she is shielding her daughter from, right now, and while war is the more important one, this, too, is not something Fareeha needs to learn about, just yet.

Fortunately, she is spared thinking about that any longer when Sam comes up behind her. He does not make much noise, as he approaches, the carpet muffling his steps, but he stands in such a way that his shadow crosses her line of sight, and she turns again to face him.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

“Of course,” replies she.

A moment of hesitation, then, reminding her that it has not been an _of course_ for much of her stay, here, that she has rebuffed him more than once, has not wanted to be touched, to have to open herself up to something like this, the nakedness of touch. “Is against the wall okay?” he asks, before he kisses her, and Ana realizes, suddenly, that she does not know if it would be, does not know how she would react, to that.

“Maybe,” she says, hands moving up and down, palms up, wavering as she is, “On the bed would be better.”

“That’s okay,” Sam tells her, smiles reassuringly before he takes her hand and moves to guide her over.

Pulling her hand free, she tells him, “I don’t need you to walk me there.”

“Sorry,” says he, mouth making the slight grimace it always does when he is embarrassed, “Too much time having to lead Fareeha everywhere.”

At that, Ana cannot help but laugh. Of course, spending nearly all of his waking hours with a small child has had an impact on Sam’s mannerisms.

(Yet, it is sad, too. She tries not to focus on the thought, but she realizes, that if she were here, maybe she would do the same thing, would see her life shaped by the presence of her daughter, in the way that Sam’s has been. Instead, Fareeha is more an idea than a person to Ana, much of the time. Although she knows she has a daughter, is fighting for her, to ensure that there is a world for her to grow up in, she has not had much chance to get to know her daughter as a person, spent the most time with her as a newborn, before her personality began to emerge. Sam knows their daughter far better than Ana does, and that experience has changed him, and she feels robbed of the same, of knowing how it would transform her, to be a mother in practice, and not only in theory.)

Once she has settled, emotionally and physically, sitting, again, on the bed, in the center of it this time, Sam moves in, again, to kiss her, first with only one hand on her knee, carefully, and then, when it is apparent that she is okay with that, he moves another hand to cradle the back of her head, slowly and gently, giving her ample time to pull away from him, to break his grip. She does not, for she does not want to. In this position, with him being so careful with her, it is hard for her to imagine how she ever felt trapped, beneath him, because things feel so _right._

It may have been a while, but he has not forgotten what she likes, how she likes it. Already, she was quite aroused, when she was the one taking care of him, and it does not take him long to return her to her previous state, when he is so able to kiss her in just the right way, knows exactly where she likes to be touched, in what way, with which amount of pressure. He made a joke, the first time they did this, about being good with his hands, and she did not know, then, if it was alright for her to laugh at that—whereas now, she would, might even join in, joke back that he is surprisingly good with his mouth, too.

Once, Sam explained to her that Deaf people feel much more precisely than hearing people do, that much of the section of their brain that might otherwise be processing sound is instead interpreting touch. Sometimes, she thinks about that—wonders what it would be like, to feel things as he does, so intensely and acutely. Most of the time, it would not be a good thing, not in her line of work, but now, now she wonders how much he must be able to experience, when they touch one another like this, how much more intense it might be.

She envies him, a little.

But what would she do, in his position? How would she handle this? Already, it threatens to overwhelm her, her reaction to just a fraction of what it is he must experience, is more than enough that she feels she is burning, underneath her skin, in the cold air, as he gently, gently lays her back on the sheets, sitting carefully to one side as he does so, such that he is never hovering above her, on top of her. So delicately, he brushes a stray hair from her face, leans down to kiss the corner of her mouth once, twice, thrice, before moving down between her legs, cautious all the while to never cover her body with his own. 

Never once does he mention what happened, only adjusts, as she needs him to, and otherwise acts like everything is normal.

That is what she wants, it is, and she focuses on that, his conscientiousness, as he moves between her legs, to nip at the delicate skin on the inside of her thighs. Maybe, she does not need to feel any more than she does already, for this is surely sensation enough, the sting of a bite, and the careful kiss afterwards, to soothe the spot. If his bites are not quite as sharp as usual, neither of them needs comment. This is what she usually likes, and so that is what he will do, even if he is, evidently, not so unaffected as he previously seemed.

With anyone else, that might bother Ana, the knowledge that she is being treated delicately. She does not need that, she does _not_ , is sick of people walking on eggshells around her, treating her as if she is different, somehow, as if she is breakable. Were that the case, she would not be alive, would not be here, now, to be pitied at all.

Yet with Sam, it is different. If he is gentler with her than usual, she knows it is not because he thinks her weak, or somehow incapable. He knows very well what sort of person she is, knows what it is she can do, what it is she can handle—when he is gentle, she knows, it is for him, because this has been hard for him too, this distance, this separation, the way that things have shifted between the two of them, just ever so slightly out of alignment, so that they no longer quite see things from the same perspective. It must bother him, must throw him off balance, just as it has her, and his response is caution, for his own sake.

(Or, she hopes it is for his sake, would hate it if he, too, pitied her, thought her broken. Of all people, it should be he who realizes that she is not so easily wounded, not so easily shattered. That she has changed, she cannot deny, but she must think herself stronger for it, she must, iron turned to steel. That stronger metals are more brittle than their softer counterparts, she cannot consider.) 

In any case, it is hard to be bothered by anything, when his tongue is so skillful. He moves his attention to her center, starts with broad stripes and, when she impatiently presses towards him, focuses his attentions on the parts of her that are the most sensitive, one hand coming up to part her labia, making it easier for him to target his movements. There is a precision to the way he moves that she appreciates—he is not a sloppy lover, never has been, is decidedly attentive. Some people might not like that lack of spontaneity, but Ana finds it easier to come herself, when she knows what is that is coming from him, can better focus on the sensation of it, when there are no surprises.

After so long, however, Ana hardly needs that extra help in centering herself; it is all she can think about, how good this feels, how fast her heart is beating, the way her thighs are shaking, the way she is trembling beneath him. If she wanted to, she could probably come now, would need only to pay attention to the mounting pressure, rock into his mouth, but she does not want things to end so quickly, not just yet, wants to enjoy this, for a little longer, wants to feel like everything is normal.

Because everything _is_ normal, of course. Nothing has changed. This she tells herself, and this she must believe.

Sam makes that easier, as he touches her in the same way that he always has, shows that, no matter what else has happened, this at least she is capable of experiencing in the same way that she always did, this she is capable of feeling, just as surely. Much has changed, but the feeling she gets when he rolls his tongue over her clit is the same as it always was, her toes curling and back arching. _Silent_ , she has to remind herself, she has to stay silent.

That is, of course, easier said than done. More than a year apart means that even ordinary sensations are much more intense, and when he moves a finger of his free hand up to trace her entrance, she bucks her hips without even thinking. Fortunately, although it cannot have been comfortable for him, the sudden jerk of her body against his face, he seems more amused than anything. She can feel him grin against her, and when she glances down, he is making eye contact with her, quirks an eyebrow in a way that makes her want to roll her eyes and tell him not to be so _smug_ about it.

(Yet she prefers that, the smugness, to what there was earlier, hesitation, gentleness. She does not need to be treated with kid gloves, and if the alternative is him gloating, she will take it.)

Instead, she does not say anything at all, because he _does_ finger her, then, clearly remembers the pace that works for her, and although it does not feel quite like it usually would, she chalks that up to the fact that it has been a while, and thinks that no, it cannot be that she does not like it, the idea of someone else inside her, does not like that loss of control, even if it is a minor one.

She just needs to focus on the pleasure. A minute ago, she was so close, and if she keeps her mind on that, keeps her mind only on the way his hand and mouth move in tandem, then it would be easy to lose herself, again, to just stop thinking, for a moment, to clear her thoughts and to just enjoy this, like she once did.

So she does focus, reminds herself that she does not need to keep her heartbeat low, during this, not in the way that she would before taking a shot, can allow herself to be lost in feeling, emotional and physical, for once, does not need to be in control, can let herself be swept away by this.

And she does. She lets her heart race, lets herself shake and finally, finally lets herself give into pleasure entirely, lets herself be swept away by the sensation, with only Sam to anchor her. Then, it does not feel like he is trapping her, with one hand against her and the other inside her, feels only as if he is tethering her in place, keeping her from coming unmoored entirely. Once single point of stillness as she allows herself to shake with feeling, just for a few moments.

Then it is over, it is done. The sweat on her skin begins to cool rapidly in the night air, and she is left feeling cold, all over. She moves to sit up, to curl in on herself, and when she does so, she does not think about what it must feel like, for him, what it must look like, closing herself off like this. 

She does not want it, the distance, wants to feel as close to him as once she did, but it is instinctive, now, the desire to care for herself, to take care _of_ herself, to ensure that she is safe, is taken care of, before she looks to anyone else. 

Carefully, Sam moves into her sightline, face not to close to hers, not in her space, something she might think of as a threat.

“You alright?” he asks her, and the sign’s connotation is ambiguous. Is he asking if she is fine physically? If she is fine mentally? Is he just asking if everything was okay, for her?

Any of those questions, he might be asking of her, and she might have known, once, instinctively which he meant, but it has been a while, since she has signed, has been more than a year apart, and she finds her fluency has fallen away. So, unsure of what specifically he is asking, she answers the simplest of all questions, “You were wonderful,” says she, unwrapping her arms from her body in order to say it, “I’m just cold.” 

(It is not a lie. She will never be used to winters, here, no matter how much time they spend together.)

“You sure?” asks he, and she knows that he can see something more in her expression, but she does not know how to vocalize it, what she is feeling, right now, cannot even truly be honest with herself about what it is that has changed, here, so she brushes his question off, best she can.

“Yes,” she assures him, “Now cuddle me. You’re warm.”

Rarely does she make demands of him, because he prefers to be asked things, but this, she knows, he will acquiesce to, and gladly. 

“Let me unlock the door?” he asks, wants to be sure that Fareeha can come in, if she needs to.

Ana nods her agreement, and Sam leaves the bed, pulls on the underwear they discarded earlier as he does so, leaves her all alone in the large, cold bed. 

Soon enough, however, he is back, content that their daughter can come wake them if she needs him, and together, they fold under the covers. When Ana lets him wrap his arms around her, they are strong and warm as they ever were, a striking contrast to the cool of the sheets, and the coldness of her own skin, of herself. What she felt a moment ago is almost forgotten, _almost._

If he holds her, everything will be fine. If he holds her, everything will feel better. If he holds her, then it will just be the two of them, and nothing else in the world.

This is true, and this, she knows, is how he will think of it, this moment.

But this, too, is true: when he holds her, his hands are busy, and he cannot speak, cannot ask her any more questions, can not expect from her answers she cannot give him.

Together, and apart, they fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> and there u have it. men get pegged dot docx
> 
> me leading u into my wine cellar: yes we have some fine pegging fic right here that is definitely NOT all a symbolic representation of anas growing inability to accept vulnerability
> 
> anyway i should have more notes or thoughts here but im no thoughts head empty so just... take this. PLEASE.
> 
> i promise i will be back to ur regularly scheduled femslash soon but in the meantime please let me know ur thoughts! hope u enjoyed <3


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